


Retribution

by atouchofprocrastination



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley's immediate response to being dicked over by hell is to go to Aziraphale's bookshop, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kidnapping, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atouchofprocrastination/pseuds/atouchofprocrastination
Summary: Aziraphale yelped as he was suddenly presented with two armfuls of soaking wet, very off balance demon. Crowley mumbled something in a mess of curses and slurred 's's, and it took Aziraphale a few seconds to have the good sense to pull Crowley more securely inside, and to close the door against the lashing rain."Crowley?" He asked, trying to support the demon into a standing position worriedly. "My goodness, what on Earth happened?"





	Retribution

_“Got you.”_

_Crowley blinks open his eyes. He’s slumped against a concrete wall in a dim room, exhausted fluorescents crackling uselessly overhead. Hastur is stood over him, eyes bright with an unsettling combination of malice and delight, and Crowley shifts a little under his gaze._

_“Really? Again with the kidnapping thing, Hastur? You’re starting to get awfully predictable-”_

_“And yet,” Hastur interrupts, voice ricocheting around the cold room, “Here you are. It would be particularly stupid, even for you, to just let yourself be captured, wouldn't it? It’s about time you remember who has power over who in hell, Crowley.”_

_Crowley swallows, tries not to look at the blades and flails on the walls. “Didn’t peg you as the sex dungeon type, but hey, not my place to judge.”_

_“Quiet!”_

_And Crowley’s hands are being slammed against the wall either side of his head. His legs snap straighter too, and he winces as he feels the muscles strain and pull taunt._

_He looks up, and Hastur is rounding on him with this macabre surgeons tray of instruments. Crowley frowns and, not for the first time since the conversation started, tries to miracle himself away; at least to a more dignified upright position where he has more of a chance of fighting Hastur off. It doesn’t work, and Hastur leers at him._

_“You should know as well as anyone that hell isn’t above torturing demons, Crowley. You should also know that since you’ve gone rouge with that pretty little angel of yours… well, it doesn’t really matter what happens to you, does it? Now-”_

_Hastur comes at him what looks suspiciously like an incredibly rusted cleaver, and Crowley grimaces._

_“This,” Hastur growls, voice low and steady and dangerous, “Is for stopping the fucking apocalypse.”_

 

The following few hours were, by no stretch of the imagination, how Crowley was wanting to spend his Friday evening. There was apparently too much pain for his mortal body to handle so, to make everything about a hundred times worse, he kept losing consciousness. Every time he woke, it was to Hastur laughing in the most cliched maniacal way possible, gripping something else sharp and painful looking. Once, he opened his eyes to his face being thrown into the slab of concrete previously under his feet, and promptly passed out again when he got the distinct impression that the length of his back had been set alight; though whether that was by pain or actual flame, he didn't know.

Eventually, he’d wound up back in London, memory quite foggy and still only upright out of spite. He would’ve liked very much to kill Hastur, except he doubts his ability to not immediately keel over if he tried. Presently, he’s not entirely sure how he’s still conscious.

He was limping through Soho in the pouring rain, decidedly miserable. Most of his injuries had already partially healed, but he can't seem to stop his back from bleeding (which is really just an insult*) and he thought disdainfully of the suit he was currently wearing and the fun new tacky patches of blood ruining the expensive fabric. 

*What kind of demon can't close up little cuts and scrapes? If he's really going there, what kind of demon would let himself be kidnapped out of his own fucking flat by  _Hastur_ , of all beings?

On top of everything else, his supernatural abilities had taken a bit of a hit. That's what Crowley would call it at least, though it should be noted that 'a bit of a hit' may have been one of the greatest understatements he'd made since the 19th century. He'd lost his glasses at some point during the hellish excursion, and couldn't for the life of him find it in himself to successfully magic another pair. And the rain was getting in his eyes. His eyes, that were being forced to view the rainy, monochrome streets of London in all their bright and rain-shimmery glory. He felt vaguely sick.

He reached the bookshop, finally, and wrenched up an arm to knock at the door, willing Aziraphale to be in and not helping an old woman cross the street or something. He waited, feeling every chilling drop of rain cutting into him and fighting the urge to screw his eyes shut against the pain and the light and the rain, until he heard disgruntled movement on the other side of the door. A second later it was pulled open, and Crowley tried as best as he could to not immediately collapse onto Aziraphale. Key word here being _tried_. 

Aziraphale yelped as he was suddenly presented with two armfuls of soaking wet, very off balance demon. Crowley mumbled something in a mess of curses and slurred 's's, and it took Aziraphale a few seconds to have the good sense to pull Crowley more securely inside, and to close the door against the lashing rain. 

"Crowley?" He asked, trying to support the demon into a standing position worriedly. "My goodness, what on Earth happened?" 

Crowley swayed violently as soon as he was upright, and Aziraphale started dragging him back towards the sofa. "Not on Earth," He muttered, hissing through a stumbling step. 

Aziraphale fretted for a second, watching Crowley crash face first into a mess of decorative cushions. He was shaking, the angel realised belatedly, and he wasted no more time in snapping his fingers and willing Crowley and his clothes into a more comfy state of _warm_ and _dry_. 

Crowley relaxed marginally as he noticed that he didn't feel quite as drowned as he did 30 seconds ago. "Thanks, angel." 

"What _happened_ , Crowley?" Aziraphale implored, kneeling next to the sofa and letting his hands hover before the spasms of red still steadily spreading over his back, desperate to do something. 

Crowley snorted, and turned his head to fix Aziraphale with a bleary look. He looked almost delirious. "Not the apocalypse, for starters. I think Hastur made that abominably clear." 

Aziraphale caught his lip between his teeth and stood. A minute later he was back with a bowl of water and a cloth, and found Crowley with his face buried in his arm. 

Aziraphale sat back down. "I need to remove your shirt and jacket, my dear, so if you'll let me-" 

Crowley shoved himself up on his elbows, grimacing in the suddenly blinding candle lit bookshop, and very ungracefully tore his jacket off. He heard Aziraphale make a startled noise, though he wasn't sure if it was because Crowley had chucked his jacket hastily behind him or because his _still_ bleeding wounds were now being more artfully displayed against his faded undershirt. Wanting to get back to smushing his face into the sofa and feeling his arms significantly weaker than they were a few moments ago, Crowley settled with haphazardly tearing open his shirt down the front, listening distantly as several buttons skidded across the floor next to him. 

He let his arms give out under him, and for a moment it was quiet. Quiet, except for the fact that he could practically feel Aziraphale vibrating with worry and anger and trepidation. Aziraphale hovered for a second, tried to peel the shirt off Crowley's back as gently as he could and, when the action was met with a barely suppressed gasp of pain, quickly surrendered to the quick miracle of just waving away the shirt. Now met with Crowley's bare back and, probably more notably, the Jackson Pollock-esque stretch of gory burn lines and cuts and what looked suspiciously like stab wounds, Aziraphale felt his breath catch. 

"D'n worry," Crowley mumbled into the sofa. "'S only flesh wounds. Didn't even touch m' wings*." 

*Crowley really did not want to think about _why_  Hastur had left those particular appendages alone, especially considering it would have made the torture about a billion times worse and he was sure hell had a nauseating collection of devices for such an experiment. Crowley was very prepared to just stay on Aziraphale's sofa for the rest of eternity and emphatically never think about it ever again.

Aziraphale tore his eyes over the injuries, then back to the basin next to him, and winced. He soaked the cloth and wrung it out grimly. 

"I'm afraid this will hurt, my dear boy." Aziraphale said regretfully, and Crowley curled an arm around his stomach. 

"Jus' get it over with." Crowley gritted out, very aware that he shouldn't be in this much pain and that something was certainly, undeniably wrong. Well, more wrong than having his back all but shredded by instruments of hell, anyway. He heard Aziraphale lean forward, and a moment later the small of his back was on _fire_. 

He doesn't manage to hold back the gasp (or the string of curses that follow it), and Aziraphale jolts to a stop. He frowns sharply and pulls back, taking the excuse of ringing out the cloth in clean water before starting again.

"Are you sure they didn't do anything to your wings?" Aziraphale eyed the injuries. Crowley has had far worse and been completely fine before, so why…? 

"Ngk," Crowley groaned against the cushions, which he hoped Aziraphale will take to mean  _yes, I know it's ridiculous that my back hurts so fucking much from seriously minor injuries but I'm sure they didn't touch my wings so would you please just help me because I don't know what he did to me and I'm kind of fucking terrified?_  

Aziraphale made a sound like he kind of got it. Either that, or he doesn't think Crowley's coherent enough to actually answer, which, honestly, isn't too far off. 

"I'm going to start again now, my dear. I'm terribly sorry." He murmured, and Crowley flinched preemptively. He wished he could lift his head up, just to be able to down a couple of bottles of wine while Aziraphale gets to work. He resigned himself to pressing his face has hard as he can into the sofa in a dashed attempt at distracting himself. It doesn’t particularly work.

Aziraphale worked as quickly as he could, mouth set in a firm line as he tried to gently wash away the blood and ignore the weak little noises of protest Crowley kept making. The cleaner the skin underneath got, however, the more he felt his stomach clench. Crowley's back looked practically _scorched_ , littered with these little blistering scratches and scrapes under the tacky layers of blood, half healed already but still oozing something a little too dark to be blood. Some are dug too nauseatingly deep for him to look at for long. _Holy water burns,_ Aziraphale realised, feeling a little sick. 

From Crowley's perspective, the world had dissolved. He felt Aziraphale's hands, gentle and tentative but still furiously painful, dancing over his back in slow motions, and Crowley's almost certain that he was making some wrecked and entirely mortifying keening noise in the back of his throat. He can't focus on anything other than the pain. For a second, he entertained the thought that he's finally been discorperated and that he's going to be stuck with _this_ for the rest of eternity. 

After a few more moments, Aziraphale sat back up and regarded Crowley's back, worrying his lip. There was much less blood now, and Aziraphale may or may not have been able to stop the active bleeding with a minor miracle or two, but he can see that he was right about the burns. He wouldn't be surprised if the instrument's they used to slice up Crowley's back were dipped in the stuff, too. 

Aziraphale stood stiffly, flushing with anger. "Let's take a little break, hm? I'll be back in a tick." 

He waited for Crowley to make a small noise of confirmation, even caught his eye as he turned his head to squint up at the angel. He brushed his hair back from his face, not missing how flushed Crowley felt, and turned to scoop up the bowl and stained pink cloth. He disappeared into the back room and emerged a minute later with an arm full of bandages and gauze, and two bottles of scotch. 

"Angel?" 

Crowley's head was tilted up a little, just enough to catch sight of the figure re-emerging from behind a bookcase. A minute's breather has done him some good, it seems.

"Those for me or you?" Crowley asked with a weak smile as Aziraphale sat the whiskey down next to the sofa. Aziraphale huffed, but smiled back, not quite able to stamp down his relief. 

"I think we could both do with a few drinks, my dear." He settled on the floor next to the sofa, and Crowley twisted his head around to look at him. 

"How is it?"

Aziraphale grimaced. His eye line was drawn insistently back to the burns and cuts. "Well… I have it in good faith that you'll live." Aziraphale offered on an anxious laugh. 

Even from his position unceremoniously sprawled along the sofa, Crowley managed to glare at him. Aziraphale sighed.

"Okay, well, um. Upon inspection, it seems… that they may have used holy water on you." He swallowed. "And by 'may' I mean they definitely have. Done quite an impressive bit of damage, I'm afraid."

Crowley growled and tried to twist around to look for himself. Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down.

" _Bastard!_ " Crowley hissed. That would explain why he felt so weak, why the pain was so _fucking excruciating-_

"How did this even happen?" He heard Aziraphale mutter, and turned to see him rock back on his heels. "I thought- well, I thought both 'our sides' were going to leave us alone? Weren't they supposed to leave us alone?" 

Aziraphale was staring at him with these wide, hurt eyes and Crowley simultaneously felt his expression soften and his stomach jolt with hot fury. He hissed. 

"Hastur's on his own fucking side." He reached to grab one of the bottles, anger numbing the stab of pain that accompanied the movement. "Never got over me killing Ligur. Wanker probably didn't even think of the repercussions of getting involved even if I really was _fucking_ _immune to holy water_ -" He interrupted himself to take a burning mouthful of scotch.

"Is he going to come and find you again?" Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes suddenly sharp. 

Crowley pushed out a breath, wishing he had a good answer to that*. Instead, he said, "Maybe. Could just be trying to scare me. Though, now that Hastur knows that I'm just as killable as he is…" Crowley trailed off tellingly, and took another mouthful of scotch to try to cool the sudden panic in his chest. 

*Maybe one along the lines of _no, all the forces of hell couldn't take me away from you_ since, well, Crowley did feel that was sort of true, or _how about that trip to Alpha Centauri, angel? Having a quiet 200 year break might do us some good, and heaven knows Hastur would never come looking for us there._

Aziraphale shook his head and pinned his eyes shut. “Enough of that, now. Let’s just focus on your back.” His eyes were open again, and he couldn’t stop the sympathetic wince as his gaze lingered on the raw skin. 

“You got any ideas, angel? ‘Cause I’m stumped.” Crowley sat the bottle back down and tried shifting off the sofa. He stopped short frustratingly quickly, panting. “I haven’t got anything,” He snapped his fingers to illustrate his point, “You can’t do anything thanks to heaven’s watchful eye, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen human remedies work on supernatural injuries.”

“We’ll just have to wait it out then, I suppose.” Said Aziraphale, looking very much like that was the last thing on Earth he wanted to do. “I could get you som- no, no, Crowley! What are you doing?”

Crowley had managed to roll of the sofa and was currently on his hands and knees next to it, swallowing back a groan. Aziraphale skirted around the table and watched helplessly as Crowley slowly pushed himself up. 

“I was going to carry you-!” Aziraphale threw an arm out to steady him when he got half way up and staggered dangerously.

“Might still have to.” He panted, leaning heavily against Aziraphale. He laughed breathlessly, “I’ll try not to pass out.”

“Honestly, there’s no need to exacerbate this whole situation out of pride.” Aziraphale frowned, and very kindly didn’t say anything when Crowley’s knees almost gave out after one step. He sighed long-sufferingly but helped him hobble over to the back of the shop, where stairs lead up to Aziraphale’s flat. At this point Crowley was wobbling precariously, even with Aziraphale’s support, and the angel made the executive decision that he’d rather not have to watch Crowley fall down his stairs today. Before Crowley could take a step, Aziraphale moved in front of him, held onto his arms firmly, and caught him as he promptly fell with the sudden jolt of materialisation.

Crowley grunted, and waited until everything stopped spinning to gingerly extract himself from the angel’s hold, wincing. They were in Aziraphale's kitchen. “Warn a guy next time.”

“Let me help you, then.” 

Crowley didn’t argue, and after a moment let a notably more smug Aziraphale guide him through the flat. 

By the time they reached Aziraphale’s bedroom, Crowley’s breathing was laboured and unsteady, and he was leaning so much on Aziraphale that he practically _was_ being carried. He was nudged forward, and fell onto a mass of duvet and pillows listlessly, taking a second to just exist in an uncomfortable haze of pain and exhaustion and- wait, was Aziraphale taking his shoes off?

“Finally undressing me, angel?” Crowley mumbled into the pillows, turning his head in time to see Aziraphale flush and turn away, shoes in hand. He busied himself with lining them up neatly by the door, and Crowley grinned. It faltered when he finally took in his surroundings.

“Aziraphale.”

“Mm?”

“Why am I in your bed?”

Aziraphale huffed and rounded on him, still pink-cheeked in a way Crowley couldn’t not call endearing. “You’re injured and I don’t sleep- where else would you expect me to put you?” 

“Just thought the first time I got into your bed would be under different circumstances.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re delirious.” Aziraphale replied coolly, though in the next moment was moving over to the bed and palming at Crowley forehead again. 

“You are actually quite warm*.”

*Crowley was both a demon, and a snake, so usually ran much cooler than humans and angels. For him, a raging fever would probably feel quite comfy on Aziraphale. Presently, Crowley could feel the uncomfortable heat under his skin, and his legs were beginning to ache viciously; though he wasn’t sure if the latter was due to the injuries, fever, or hurried walk through a thoroughly raining Soho. He suspects the combination of all three isn’t doing him any favours. 

“‘S fine. A temperature’s normal. Lemme sleep and I’ll be fine.” Crowley shoved his face back into the pillows before Aziraphale could start testing his cheeks, pointedly telling him to go away. 

He felt a blanket being placed over his legs and after a second heard footsteps retreating and the door creaking fully open, and he just managed to turn his head towards Aziraphale again before he left.

“Thank you for making sure I don’t die, angel. Y’ didn't have to.” His voice was small and beginning to slur slightly, and he desperately hoped the gratitude translated.

He needn’t have been worried. The angel beamed. “No problem at all, my dear. Now, get some sleep, and you’ll be right as rain in a few days.” 

The door closed behind him, and Crowley smiled. The bed smelled like Aziraphale, and as soon as Crowley let his eyes properly close, he was asleep in seconds. 

**Author's Note:**

> listen i just,, really love some h/c ineffable husbands ok. i've got some other part written fics and some more ideas if people are interested in more good omens content from me (i'm probably gonna post some of it anyway because i just. need. more. content. and if you can't find it, make it yourself right)
> 
> also i wrote most of this in a sort of good omens fuelled haze at 1am, but i did manage to get it beta'ed so hopefully no mistakes fell through the cracks. sorry if there are, hopefully it doesn't take away from the experience! thank you so much for reading <3


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